One Last Cigarette
by za
Summary: Death thoughts in the garage.


Title: One Last Cigarette

Author: mao

Disclaimer: The Virgin Suicides belongs to a lot of people whose names I can't remember save Sophia Coppola. Congrats to them.

Author's Notes: Little Luxie death fic.

***

Choking, coughing. Hacking painfully, so her throat burns. She wants the cigarette in her hand, but she can't light it or the whole garage will go up in flames and she'll die painfully.

Not that this is so great a way to go, she reflects. She thought it would be...well, less painful. Gas herself to death. The words still sound good, still sound safe and easy. But then the reality...it hurts, like a bitch. But that's the price she pays to die, she reminds herself. If she wants to go, she has to accept that anything she does has consequences; dying is much the same. To end it all may be painful, but it's a quick burst and then it's over.

They'll find her soon. Coughing, she stomps on the gas pedal, revving the car and making more carbon monoxide. Presses the pedal hard once, twice, five times. She coughs hard as her foot relaxes back again. Thinks of Trip.

Trip fucking Fontaine. She still loves him. Every time she's brought a guy up to the roof to have sex, she's been with Trip in her mind. They all looked like him, with the longish dark hair and dilated pupils. She's never really enjoyed the sex, but then again, she never had sex with Trip. They kissed and petted and she can still feel his fingers inside her if she thinks about it, but falling asleep next to him was the closest they got to sleeping together. 

Not that Mom and Dad believe that. They don't even want to believe their daughters are responsible at all. Of course, she thinks, she isn't really responsible. She would have slept with Trip, if they hadn't both passed out. She's still mad at him for being gone when she woke, but part of her still knows he loves her. 

Maybe. 

She wonders about that and brings the cigarette to her lips, sucking on it hard. She twists it around and realizes slowly that the end is unlit. Sighing in exhaustion, she relaxes back in the seat and lets her arm flop out the window. Her fingers tighten around the thin white tube. 

Cigarettes.

How she loves cigarettes. They're something to do with her hands, to occupy herself. The feeling of the smoke being pulled hard into her lungs is pleasurable. She sighs again, thinking about the roughness of smoke in her throat. She breathes in deeply, coughs again. 

She brings her other hand to her mouth, trying to cover the sound of the coughing. It takes her a long time to stop this time, and as she leans back, her head collides with the seat. She fingers the cigarette carefully, and thinks of Trip. 

Of his smooth fingers tracing the length of his cigarette. Of waking up and wondering where he'd gone. His fingers tracing around her lips in a single, slow motion. His pupils dilated after lunch, the scent of weed on his clothes. Him approaching her as she sat on the grass with her sisters. His laughter.

Dammit, she wants this cigarette, but it's still not lit. Things are growing fuzzy in her vision, and the garage door seems like one huge wall, as the hinges fade out. She thinks about Cecilia now. How she misses her sister.

_I'll be with her soon._

Poor Cecilia, with her wit and her beautiful soul, her sweet drawings and mature observations. With her good ideas. After all...there was no other way to get even when things were wrong. They'd know they'd fucked up. And that made her happy.

She leans back in the seat, her shoulders finally relaxing. Poor Cecilia, who'd found the perfect way out on a late summer's evening. She wonders absently if Cecilia was in pain, if it hurt to fall, or if it was like flying.

She's flying now, soaring past the house and the neighborhood on wings of silver and gold. She can look down and see her parents, in perfect tears. Her sisters' graves. Trip, in the agony of the way he behaved. 

But it's not about Trip. Really, she tells herself. It's about Cecilia.

Being with her sister again. 

She just wishes she could have one last cigarette. She can feel it in her fingers, holding it gently so it won't break in half and crumble our tobacco. She gropes on the seat beside her for a lighter, wondering where it might have gone.

And now she's slumped down, flying again. 

Cecilia's out there. And here she comes. 


End file.
